Dean Winchester
by Lif61
Summary: Dean has a bad night, and attempts to figure out who he is.


**A/N: Written for week 9 of SPN Hiatus Creations 2019. Propmt: Dean Winchester.**

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Dean knew he was treating the kid like his dad had treated him. He didn't know why, didn't know why he'd become this gruff person, why he'd fallen back into old habits of locking himself away, of being no one so he could be John.

Dean knew how to be John.

It was easy.

Listen to Dad's music, wear Dad's leather jacket, talk like Dad, act like Dad. Be Dad.

Easy.

Being Dean, that wasn't easy.

Dean wasn't sure he knew who he was.

All his life he had to be daddy's little soldier, looking up to him, doing what he said, acting exactly like him or he'd get yelled at or left behind.

So he protected Sammy.

But that wasn't a personality.

Was it?

Protect Sammy.

That was the job.

He clung to his brother.

Sam died, and Dean brought him back. He always brought him back, even if it got himself killed, even if it violated Sam, even if it became obsessive.

Protect Sammy.

Who was Dean?

Dean was a hunter.

But that was what he had to be. His dad had been a hunter, Sam had been a hunter.

Sometimes Dean stayed up at night contemplating all this over too much beer. He was contemplating it now. He'd had to get away from the bunker. He'd blown up at Sam over something, couldn't even remember exactly what, he'd driven recklessly, in a blind haze of emotion that ached and bled, and now he was here. It was past 2:00 in the morning, and he'd been drinking steadily for awhile, alcohol buzzing and burning through him.

God, his life was hell.

Didn't most people know who they were?

Dean got out his laptop, had a blank document open, telling himself he was stupid, that this was stupid. Journaling? It wasn't for him, but he began to write:

_Dean._

_Dean Winchester._

_Sam's brother._

_Castiel's friend._

Yep. It looked dumb as shit on the screen, but he wasn't about to delete it.

Dean skipped a couple of lines, tear building in his eyes, and wrote:

_**WHO AM I?**_

_**A hunter.**_

_**A killer.**_

No, Dean didn't like seeing that in all bold, but he felt wrong deleting it. It was the truth, so he crossed it out, and then he wrote:

**DEAN. DEAN. DEAN.**

**MY NAME IS DEAN.**

God, this was getting nowhere.

He slammed his laptop shut, and finished off his beer. He let out a scream, and threw it against the wall.

Why couldn't he just figure himself out? Why couldn't he know who he was?

He killed, he saved, he destroyed, he ruined, he helped, he loved, he hurt.

And right now his chest was aching so badly, and he was blinded with tears, and he fell from the chair and ended up on his knees, hugging himself. He just wanted Sam, wanted Castiel. Hell, even the kid would do.

Why was he all alone? Dean always felt so alone.

Memories of Hell, of torment, of aching, bruising flesh were in his head.

There had to be more than that. There had to be.

Holding Sam when they were younger, hugging him, getting him food, taking care of him.

But he was more than Sam's parent. He wanted to be.

What else did he do? He… He liked music, fast cars, girls, maybe even guys, liked cooking, joking around, hell, even being weird sometimes. Liked to geek out with his brother sometimes, when no one else was around, like _Star Wars_, _The Lord of the Rings_, _The Princess Bride_; even liked ballet.

But _who was he?_

When he tried to search for it there was an emptiness, a nothingness, and it circled back to John, circled back to Sam.

They were Dean. Dean was them.

There was no Dean, was there?

They would say there was, he was sure, but he couldn't find Dean.

Find Dean, find Dean, find Dean…

Who the hell was Dean?

He screamed again, and got himself another bottle of beer, finishing off that one, and smashing it against the wall. For good measure he threw the lamp across the room, nearly satisfied with how it had shattered.

Dean. Dean. Dean.

Dean Winchester.

Dean sat on the bed, emptiness taking him, wanting to know who he was, having more to drink, hoping that maybe it'd bring him some clarity.

Maybe in the morning his family could tell him who he was.

And they'd tell him he was funny, and loving, and resilient, and intelligent, and brave, and someone who was allowed to hurt.

He was Dean Winchester.


End file.
